


Bronze Boys

by JohnlockRabbit



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Canon-Era, Homophobia, M/M, Victorian, sorry this is going to be sad friends, there is also slight valvert and eposette!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnlockRabbit/pseuds/JohnlockRabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fear<br/>[fɪə]<br/>noun<br/>1. an unpleasant emotion caused by the threat of danger, pain, or harm.<br/>"I cowered in fear as bullets whizzed past."</p><p> </p><p>February 1914, and Grantaire is still living in the past. It's been fourteen years since he lost Enjolras, and yet he can still barely live without him.<br/>He should have known better. He should have been wiser than to fall in love with a boy, but now the damage is done, all he can do is live with it.</p><p>It would have been fine, perhaps, had it not been for the break-in. Now he's drowning in memories and he can't seem to get his head above the water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> (yes, that is actually the example under the dictionary definition of fear, you're not the only one crying.)
> 
> so i decided to combine all of my interests and write this? there are definitely going to be parallels to oscar wilde's life here, and i don't regret a thing.

_2nd February 1914 - London_

 

“Excuse me, Sir, but do I know you from somewhere?”

Grantaire looked up from his newspaper, and into the eyes of a young girl. She was sat opposite him in the rocking tube carriage, clutching a brown package and smiling gently  with rouge-tinted lips.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken.” Grantaire said. The words came out harsher than he expected.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The young woman’s eyes dropped to her lap as she fiddled with the string on her parcel.

The two of them sat in silence, well aware that they were alone in each other’s company. Grantaire, whilst not a fan of crowds, wished he had chosen one of the busier carriages. At least that way he would have been safe from this girl’s curious glances.

But now the intercom was announcing their next station, and the doors were opening, Grantaire was finally free. He jumped up and fled the carriage, leaving the poor girl to stare after him, slightly offended by his behaviour.

Offended was fine. Feelings didn’t matter, nothing really mattered anymore.

 

Making his way out of the station, Grantaire finally found himself able to breath. He sucked in a large lungful of the smoggy London air, suddenly oblivious to the rancid smell of the Thames that followed him no matter where he went.

He felt silly, having calmed down, for reacting so strongly. The girl had probably mistaken him for an old friend, or someone she had seen at the theatre. After all, she was too young to recognise him, too young to remember.

Besides, he was always jumpy on nights like tonight. The smoggy mist reminded him of old times; of hands silently brushing against each other, of loving in secret and living a lie. It was all so long ago, but the wounds were still raw and deep.

Surely, it was all a dream. A fantasy he made up after working himself too hard again. Surely, when he arrived home, he wouldn’t find it as empty as he left it.

He told himself this every day on the way back from work. Fourteen miserable years and it never got any easier.

And now he was walking faster, almost running, not even sure which direction he was going. Posters flew past him, government notices warning citizens of the coming war. Grantaire had known it was coming for years now. He’d always been a pessimist.

He only stopped when he realised he’d reached him apartment, bending forward to pant and retch into a gutter. Several people stared, and some whispered accusations to each other.

 _“Drunkard!”_ They hissed, “ _Good for nothing fool!”_

They were right, but tonight not a single drop of whisky had passed Grantaire’s lips. Tonight, he was drunk on memories.

He stumbled inside, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and searched for his home, Apartment 32. The corridor was drab, with fading carpets and peeling wallpaper; his room wasn’t much better, either.

 The first thing he noticed, when he finally managed to unlock the door with his fumbling hands, was the mess. Break-ins weren’t uncommon in this part of London, but this thief had clearly entered to purposefully create chaos.

A few of his paintings, which had been lying around the room in various states of completion, had been ripped to shreds, and the glass-framed photographs from his mantlepiece had been smashed, scattering glass all over the floor.

Grantaire wasn’t surprised, not really. He hoped that the vandal was just that, a vandal, and not a murderer, lurking somewhere in the shadows. That was the last thing he needed.

Sighing, he flung himself down on his shredded sofa and stared at the mess in front of him. His eyes were drawn to a photograph lying face down on the floor, and somehow, he knew exactly what it was. It wasn’t one of his photographs, of that he was sure.

With shaking hands and shuddering breath, he picked up the picture and turned it over, his blood running cold at the sight of it.

There he was, stood alone, laughing at some long-forgotten joke.

And there _he_ was. Radient, as always, basking in Grantaire’s joy.

God, they used to be so happy. Where did it go wrong?

Grantaire closed his eyes, finally letting himself be crushed by his own thoughts.

  
  


_24th January, 1890 - London_

  


Grantaire yawned as he poked at his fire, willing just a little more heat out of it before he had to go buy some more wood. Of course, coal would be better, but who had money for coal? Not struggling artists, anyway.

Sighing, Grantaire gave up on his useless task, he was running low on essential supplies anyway, it was best if he made the trip into town sooner rather than later.

So he grabbed his coat, and doused his fire. Money was tight at the moment, as it always was in Winter. But all he needed, all he _really_ needed, was to sell a painting.

And, with uncharacteristic optimism, Grantaire also picked up one of his smaller paintings and propped it under his arm. He wasn’t above selling wares on the street, after all.

The journey to town was a short one. He’d traded beauty and cleanliness for convenience, as had everyone else that lived on his street. It wasn’t quite a slum, but the grease-slicked path beneath his feet was very different from the clean-swept streets of the rich and indulgent.

Luckily, he managed to make it into town without slipping over, he’d lost quite a few paintings that way, not that they were valuable. They probably sold for less than the paint he’d made them with but it didn’t matter; he managed to scrape by buying nothing more than bread, paint, and firewood.

Today was a Sunday, arguably the best day for sales. Of course, some people devoted their Sundays to religion and quietness, but most spent it enjoying themselves, glad for a day free from work.

Even some of the more wealthy people came to this part of town on Sundays. Grantaire was sure that they didn’t think anything of it, but for him it was a thrill to see such fine clothes, to smell the strange perfumes they covered themselves in.

He hated them. Most people did. But he was still inexplicably drawn to them, like a moth to a lantern, wings fluttering and ready to burn.

It wasn’t long before he spotted a family, looking out of place amidst the crowd of unclean, ragged shoppers. There was the mother, who was nervously twisting a pendant between her long fingers, a father, who was scolding a grocery boy, and a son, who looked as though he was about the same age as Grantaire.

The son was, undoubtedly, the most beautiful person Grantaire had ever seen. His deep blue eyes were anxiously darting around, taking everything in as though he’d never seen so many people in his life. For a split second, his gaze landed on Grantaire, who stared right back at him, so unused to social situations that he didn’t know to look away. The son blushed and smiled, his scarlet cheeks matching his red jacket.

Grantaire ached to go talk to him, but he restrained himself, numb fingers tightening around his canvas. A strange warmth came over him, burning holes in his lungs, though in reality he was freezing beneath his thin coat.

And the son was looking at him again, squinting against the harsh Winter light, his blonde hair whipping around his face. He was the vision of a storm, walking towards Grantaire, parting the crowd effortlessly.

“Excuse me,” He said once he reached Grantaire, “But is that painting for sale?”

“This?” Grantaire croaked, his cheeks flushing as he held out the portrait, it’s bright colours paling in comparison to the boy stood before him, “It- yeah, I suppose it is.”

“How much?” He fumbled with his purse; Grantaire noticed he had the same elegant fingers as his mother.

“Oh, as much as you want, I really don’t mind.” Tongue-tied, Grantaire kicked himself for not seizing the opportunity to take advantage of the boy’s wealth.

“Is fifty pounds enough? I’m afraid it’s all I have on hand.”

Fifty pounds! Grantaire’s head reeled at the amount of money. Was his work really worth that much, or did the boy feel sorry for him?

“I’m sorry, is it really too little? I could go ask my father for more?” The boy said, concerned by the surprise on Grantaire’s face.

“No, no!” Grantaire restrained himself from grasping at the boy’s sleeve, “Fifty pounds is plenty, truly.”

“I'd pay more if I could, have you any others?”

“I do at home, I could go get them?”

“Can you show me?” The boy asked, his eyes wide.

“Show you?”

“Yes! If it's not too much trouble!”

“But, won’t your… father mind?” Grantaire was dizzy, grasping at straws, desperate to get away from this strange boy and his blazing eyes.

“He doesn't need to know.” The boy slipped his hand into Grantaire's for a heart-stopping moment, and pulled them both away from the crowded street.

“I'm not sure, you’ll like it, though.” Grantaire pleaded, “It's hardly up to your standards.”

“My standards?”

“You and your…” Grantaire gestured wildly, heart throbbing in his chest, “Your dinner parties, and ballrooms and-”

“You see what the class system has done?” The boy said, suddenly angry, “You're afraid to even _talk_ to me!”

“That's not true!”

“Yes it is!” The boy placed his hand on Grantaire’s neck to feel his pulse, raising his eyebrows at the too-fast thrumming of Grantaire's heart.

“I have a condition.” Grantaire said defiantly, raising his chin to look the taller boy in the eye.

“I'm sure you do.” The boy said seriously, before bursting into a fit of childlike giggles, which triggered Grantaire's own undignified snorts.

“But, really, I doubt a gentleman like you would want to see my house.”

“I do.” The boy became serious again, “Truly, I do.”

 

Grantaire thought for a moment, before dropping his gaze to the floor, “I actually have some work to do. But if you want to come around later, when your dad isn't waiting around the corner, then I live on Marlow Street, number 14.”

“What time?”

“Four o’clock, is that alright?” Grantaire asked anxiously.

“Perfect.” A small smile appeared on the boy’s lips, and he turned to look back at the crowded street, “I should be getting back, then.”

“Oh, of course!” Grantaire took a step backwards, suddenly aware of how close together they were stood. It wasn’t decent.

The boy pressed his hand and grinned before twisting away to leave, “I’ll see you later!”

“Wait!” Grantaire shouted at his retreating figure, “I never got your name!”

The boy turned, the joy that had been alight in his eyes only moments ago now dulled, his mouth pulled into a downturned grimace.

“Enjolras.” He said, his voice rough, not quite meeting Grantaire’s gaze.

And with that, he disappeared into the crowd of shoppers, hair whipping in the wind like some romantic hero in the fairytales Grantaire used to read as a child. He smiled to himself, slipping his hands into his pockets and breathing deeply through his nose.

  
_Enjolras._


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Grantaire's dismay, Enjolras doesn't come to his house alone. The strange man also has an offer for the artist, one he is almost afraid to refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaa, I'm so sorry this took so long! It's been half-finished in my drafts for weeks, and I only just remembered it!  
> Updates will be irregular until the end of June probably? I have some Big Scary Exams, and they'll be keeping me away from my writing! ;_;

_3rd February 1914 - London_

  
“Sir, are you sure this was an organised crime?”  
“Certain.”

Grantaire was face-to-face with a police inspector, whose bleary eyes bore into him as he asked questions, each one more impatient than the last.  
Grantaire hated to cause a fuss, to draw attention to himself, but the photo from the night before had worried him. Who was this criminal that knew his past? It wasn’t a friend, he was sure of that much, but were they trying to hurt him or simply blackmail him?

“Sir, I’m sorry, but we can’t investigate every little break-in, it would be counterproductive!”  
“I understand, but-”  
“No, I’m sorry, Sir,” The inspector cut him off, “We can’t investigate further into this matter.”  
_He knows_ , a little voice whispered in the back of Grantaire’s mind, _he can see right through you._

But the inspector said nothing more, and left the room, his coat trailing behind him. Only when the sound of his footsteps faded did Grantaire allow himself to crumple to the floor and cry, his whole body shaking with loud, uncontrollable sobs.  
He needed to get out, to scream and yell until there wasn’t a single breath left in his ragged body. But he couldn't, he wasn’t wild and free as he used to be, he was a broken man, a shell of his former self.  
So instead, he picked himself up from the floor, and walked over to his half-empty bookshelf. He thanked his lucky stars that the vandal ignored the shelf. It was his greatest treasure.  
Stooping to pick up a large leather bound photo album that had been squeezed into the smallest corner of the cabinet, Grantaire allowed a small smile to pass his lips.  
Inside the album were hundreds of photos, all crammed in together, with tiny captions scrawled underneath them.  
Opening the book to a random page, Grantaire’s eyes fell upon a photo captioned ‘ _Day At The Beach With Enjolras and Les Amis.’_ Pictured, was a large group of young adults, all smiling and squinting blurrily at the camera.  
Grantaire wasn’t in the photo, he’d often preferred to be behind the camera, which had been a treasured gift from Enjolras, one he’d almost been unable to accept.  
How he wished he still had that camera. How stupid he’d been, how thoughtless to throw away such a priceless gift in a moment of rage, and all for a meaningless argument.  
What had they been arguing about? Grantaire racked his brains, but couldn't quite recall. Something useless, no doubt.

A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts, and a familiar cough caused him to start and turn around.  
“I’m here about a break-in?” He said, his voice coarse with age, “Are you Mr Grantaire?”

Another overwhelming wash of memories and Grantaire’s knees buckled at the sight of the officer’s concerned brown eyes, waves of shame and nausea rising within him.  
He squeezed his eyes shut, tears forming behind his eyelids as he held back a second wave of sobs.  
“Yes, thank you, Javert, I think I’ll be needing your help again.”

 

_24th January 1890 - London - 4pm_

 

  
The sun was beginning to set when Grantaire finally put down his paintbrush. After arriving home from town, he’d worked almost feverishly, eager to please the strange man he’d met that morning.  
“Enjolras.” He whispered to himself, rolling the name around on his tongue. It couldn’t be his first name, after all, going by your family name had become increasingly popular over the years. In fact, Grantaire couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him by his Christian name. It barely belonged to him anymore.  
His mother had christened him Horatio; cruelly making him stand out since birth. All Grantaire had ever wanted to do was blend in, and it was becoming harder and harder as the years wore on.

A loud knock at the door woke Grantaire from his daydreams. He’d almost forgotten about Enjolras’ appointment.  
He pushed his chair back and stood up, stretching wearily. Outside, the familiar voices of Grantaire’s neighbours mingled with the high, halting voices of newcomers: Enjolras had brought friends.  
Grantaire sighed; of course he hadn’t expected the boy to come alone, very few aristocrats wandered into this end of town unaccompanied. Still, Grantaire’s heart sank as he reached the door and saw the shadows of two new men on the other side.  
“Hello? Are you in there?” Enjolras’ voice sounded through the door, followed by him hissing to one of his friends, _“I didn’t catch his name, I’ve already told you! Let me be!”_  
Slowly, Grantaire opened the door, peering out through the narrow crack. Before him stood Enjolras, scowling playfully at one of his friends, who was short with a mop of messy brown hair. Behind the both of them stood a man so tall that Grantaire did a double take. The man was looking around calmly, his large hands plunged deep into his pockets, nose wrinkling as he tried to keep his glasses from slipping off his nose.  
“I see you’ve brought company.” Grantaire said, laughing shakily.  
“Sorry about that.” Enjolras said, shooting a nervous glance at the boy next to him before stepping forward to offer his hand, “And I’m sorry that I never got your name, I was in such a hurry earlier that I forgot to ask.”  
“Grantaire.”  
Enjolras smiled as they shook hands and gestured to the boys behind him, “This here is Courfeyrac.” He said as he pointed at the dark-haired boy, “And that’s Combeferre.”  
Courfeyrac grinned and waved whilst Combeferre flashed a warm smile, tilting his head slightly.  
“Nice to meet you both.” Grantaire pulled his hand away from Enjolras’ and shoved his, now clenched, fists into his pockets.  
Enjolras’ smile fell from his face as he studied Grantaire’s expression, “Could you both wait in the cab?” He asked, turning to his two friends, “Mr Grantaire and I have important matters to discuss.”

The two other men left them staring at each other in silence, neither of them able to quite meet each other’s eyes.  
“Do you want to come inside?” Grantaire asked.  
“Oh, if that’s alright with you?” Enjolras said, pulling his coat tighter around himself.  
“It’s fine.” Grantaire opened to door wider, motioning for Enjolras to follow him inside. The whole exchange was stilted and awkward, they’d lost the shining magic of their conversation that morning.  
“Quite a place you’ve got.” Enjolras said, walking inside. Grantaire wasn’t sure whether or not he was being sarcastic, but the man seemed genuinely interested in his surroundings, slowly walking around to gaze at Grantaire’s many paintings, “God, these are beautiful, Grantaire.”  
And, for once, Grantaire was speechless. He watched as Enjolras circled his single-room home, eyes wide as though trying to soak in as much as possible.  
“They’re really nothing.” He finally managed to say, voice quivering slightly.  
Enjolras span around, and came so close to Grantaire that their foreheads were almost touching, “Truly.” He said, “They’re beautiful.”  
Grantaire blushed and glanced away from Enjolras, he couldn’t understand the man. One minute he was afraid to come to his house alone, and the next he was stood dangerously close to Grantaire. If someone were to come in now and see them, there would be a scandal. Or worse, a court case.  
“Uh,” Grantaire said, clearing his throat, “If you like them that much, you can have them!”  
“Have them?” Enjolras smiled playfully.  
“It’s not like I’m going to sell them all. You’re the first person to show interest in them.”  
Enjolras breathed in sharply, his eyelashes flickering slightly as he blinked and took a step back, “It wouldn’t be fair, what with my wealth and your-” He flailed for a second, “Lack thereof.”  
“Are you saying I’m poor?” Grantaire said, narrowing his eyes in mock anger.  
“No! No, I’m just saying-” Enjolras said before realising Grantaire was joking, “Fuck.” He sighed, tilting his head to smile at the patchy ceiling, “I’m so ineloquent with you.”  
Grantaire started at Enjolras’ foul mouth, he hadn’t expected it with his usual sophisticated language. Enjolras caught a glimpse of Grantaire’s scandalised face and laughed.  
“Sorry, I suppose I’m not exactly the best image of a gentleman.”  
“It’s fine, I’m no better.” Grantaire grinned, glad to see a more human side of Enjolras.  
“I actually came to ask you about something other than paintings.”  
“I kind of guessed that.” Grantaire’s eyes flicked towards the window, where he could just make out the shape of a cab.  
“See, I’m part of this group. This revolutionary group.” Enjolras said carefully, “And there’s something about you that’s just… _right_. I’ve discussed it with the other members and they wanted to meet you.”  
“So your two friends-”  
“Just listen!” Enjolras cut him off, placing a light hand on his shoulder, “Our views are rather… modern.”  
“Well, that’s fine with me.” Grantaire said, suddenly very aware of how close Enjolras was to him, “I’m a very modern man.”  
Enjolras’ eyes raked over Grantaire, and he took another nervous step backwards as he dropped his hand from Grantaire’s shoulder.  
“Of course,” He said, “There is the law to think of. Just being in this group is dangerous.”  
“Life is dangerous,” Grantaire laughed giddily, “I may as well take a chance whilst I can.”  
“Then come to my club with me,” Enjolras said in earnest, “I’ll introduce you formally to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, I’m sure they’ll like you!”  
“Your club?” Grantaire scoffed, raising an eyebrow.  
“I know,” Enjolras said, “But almost nobody goes there except for us. It’s very private.”  
There it was again, a hinted desire. Was Grantaire imagining things? He felt as though someone had strung an electric wire between the two of them, and every veiled suggestion sent another shock along it, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

A polite knock at the door startled them both, and the electric wire snapped, leaving them both sheepish and blushing.  
“Sorry, I don't want to intrude.” Courfeyrac said as he poked his head around the door, “But there’s an officer insisting we move the cab.”  
“We’re coming, tell him to wait a moment.” Enjolras said without turning away from Grantaire.  
“To the club?” Grantaire asked, grinning mischievously.  
“To the club.”

  
Enjolras’ club, the Musain, was nothing like what Grantaire had been expecting. He’d pictured lavish furnishings, with excessive gold trimming and other expensive touches.  
But the Musaim, in reality, was nothing more than a small cafe. There were hard, wooden seats set around large tables, and the few people seated around the tables were talking in low, gentle voices.  
“I'm afraid this is it.” Combeferre said gravely, mistaking Grantaire's surprise for apprehension.  
“It's nice.” He assured him, “Nicer than I imagined.”  
Combeferre nodded in approval, or agreement, Grantaire couldn't tell, and pointed out an empty table to Enjolras.  
“Yes, this’ll do.” Enjolras sat down, folding his hands neatly on the table and looking up at Grantaire expectantly, “Are you going to sit?”  
Grantaire sat on one of the hard chairs, his arms held stiffly to his sides, he stood out here.  
“Don't worry, it's safe here.” Courfeyrac said, sitting beside him.  
“Safe from what?” Grantaire asked.  
Courfeyrac cast a sideways glance at Enjolras before continuing, “From the police. We’re technically an illegal group.”  
“Technically.” Combeferre cut in, putting a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, “But we’re really not doing anything wrong.”  
Courfeyrac giggled nervously and dropped his gaze to the floor, away from Grantaire.  
Grantaire sat obediently, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes. The room was beginning to feel oppressively hot, and Grantaire felt a small trickle of sweat roll down his temple.  
“What laws are we breaking?” He asked after a moment of silence.  
“All kinds.” Enjolras said defiantly, eyes gleaming with a strange sense of pride.  
“What about jail?”  
“What about it?”  
Courfeyrac shifted uncomfortably on his seat, eyes flickering nervously around the room.  
“So do you want to join us or not, Grantaire?” Combeferre asked, not unkindly.  
Grantaire looked at his hands for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Combeferre’s gaze, “Yes,” He said, “Yes I do.”


End file.
